


do to me

by Eremji (handsfullofdust)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AU: Canon divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Big Dicks and Burgeoning Feelings, Dirty Talk, Early in Canon, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, M/M, Overstimulation, Porn Without Plot, Potion Use, Praise, Rough Sex, Sex Outdoors, Sex in an Altered State
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22438201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsfullofdust/pseuds/Eremji
Summary: A dead end hunt leaves Geralt overwhelmed and riding on the wrong side of the potions that help him do his duties. When he makes it back to camp, Jaskier finally proves too much to resist. Fortunately, Jaskier proves eager to assist.Summer worms its way under his skin during the hot hike back up the side of the grassy knoll where he left Roach to mind Jaskier. The long stretch of Redanian countryside is bursting with summer growth – the grass as tall as a man in many places – and overcome with fragrant wildflowers.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 124
Kudos: 3321





	do to me

**Author's Note:**

> All my immense thanks to everyone who shook the rafters cheering while I was writing. This idea was birthed fully formed from sea foam or something, so here we are.
> 
> Obviously, don't try this at home unless you want bugs. This is how you get bugs. This is pure fantasy here.
> 
> Catch me on Twitter [@Eremji](https://twitter.com/Eremji) and Tumblr at [Eremji]()

Summer worms its way under his skin during the hot hike back up the side of the grassy knoll where he left Roach to mind Jaskier. The long stretch of Redanian countryside is bursting with summer growth – the grass as tall as a man in many places – and overcome with fragrant wildflowers.

He itches with pent up energy. The warg den turned out to be another dead end, empty of any signs of recent habitation. Old moldering bones and scraps of fur shed too long ago to smell like anything but dirt and dust.

Fifth job in a month gone south by way of not being a job at all, and maybe the worst of it was that Geralt dosed himself with a bevy of potions for this one, half hopeful for a fight with a pack of the beasts instead of another abandoned nest or barren crevice. He could use the coin; if not for Jaskier’s busking, they’d have nothing but pocket lint and overcooked rabbit for the road.

It’s too hot for the beasts. It’s too hot for Geralt. His shoulders prickle with sweat beneath the black leather. His skin feels taut, restlessness lodged in his belly like a misfired arrow.

He jogs up the slope, tries to burn off the excess energy, but it’s no use. The alchemical process, once it takes hold, can’t be purged by traipsing through flowers. He needs somewhat more and is unlikely to find peace from it this day. If he might fling himself down by a fire and sweat it from himself before dusk, he’ll count himself fortunate.

Sweat prickles at the nape of his neck, the noon sun bearing down until he feels like he’s being crushed beneath the cloying weight of the light. His skin feels too tight with no rush of anticipation and no fight to focus his sensitivity to light and sound and smell.

He hears Jaskier before he sees him, splashing about in the shallow stream bordering their hastily-erected campsite. Roach is grazing sedately, her withers visible above the standing prairie grass, but the only thing Geralt can make out of is Jaskier is the dark bob of his head as he straightens from whatever foolishness he’s engaging in to pass the time.

“How do you put up with it, Roach? Everything smells of sweat. Biting bugs everywhere. The _dust_. Wouldn’t you like it much better if you had a nice shady stable and some sweet oats?” Jaskier chatters. His voice rises and washes over Geralt like waves breaking on the shore and Geralt feels his focus slipping away just like the sand pulled by the tides.

Roach swishes her tail and raises her head, chewing sedately. One ear flicks in Geralt’s direction in acknowledgement, but she’s staring at Jaskier while she lunches, like she isn’t quite certain she should take her eyes off of him.

Geralt knows the feeling. He still isn’t settled on traveling with Jaskier, not a year in, but he can’t seem to shake his unlikely companion. He hasn’t decided if he wants to.

Jaskier raises his arms above his head and it becomes clear from the wet slap of fabric and the bare, faintly freckled expanse of his shoulders rising into view that he’s doing laundry. And singing. _Loudly_.

“Oh ho ho, rinse away the dirt,” Jaskier rattles on at the top of his lungs, three parts nonsense, one part real time narration. “Sudsy sudsy bubbles — _fuck_ , ow. Why are there always flies? And must they bite? How lovely it must be to be a horse, with a great big floppy _tail_ to wave away little buzzing things. I’d love a tail, but I bet it’d mess up the line of my trousers.”

He’s _so loud_. What Geralt finds moderately trying under normal circumstances is now like a dull knife scraped over raw skin.

“What the absolute fuck do you think you’re doing?” Geralt snarls as Jaskier strikes up a conversation with his dirty trousers.

He bursts through the tall grass, ready to seize Jaskier and shake him until he stops bellowing so loudly that every creature in a ten mile radius knows exactly where to find a helpless, tender snack.

Except Jaskier is as naked as the day he was born and glistening with water besides. Geralt skids to an abrupt halt, feeling as foolish and shocked as a fawn jumping into the jaws of a waiting wildcat. Barely a handful of paces separate them and he draws a breath and sucks in the scent of Jaskier’s clean flesh.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, his back to Geralt, then continues in a cheery, sing-song chatter, “Geralt, are you done already? Beasts slain? Maidens saved? Come join me in the stream! It’s murderously hot!”

Geralt makes a low noise, barely more than a rumble of sound, frustrated. Roach trots out of the way of their confrontation, ears pinned back, and flicks her tail. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“What?” Jaskier rounds on Geralt, entirely oblivious to any danger he might be putting himself in. He’s bared to the elements, but the thatch of hair on his chest and pillowing his soft cock remind Geralt he’s very much a fully grown man. “Geralt, no need to — _oh_.”

It’s been a strange year, his path running lengthwise and crosswise to Jaskier’s, but he’s never had to handle seeing Jaskier in the nude, emerging from the water like some sort of noisy, scruffy naiad.

And Jaskier has certainly never seen him like this. High on alchemy, skin too tight, everything too much, eyes black as pitch. He knows what he looks like, that he’s more monstrous than usual to the unaccustomed eye. Geralt’s been — careful.

He doesn’t feel careful now. He feels — full to bursting, restless and itchy and full of needling, nonspecific impulse that rapidly narrows to a far more specific arousal. His gaze rakes up and down Jaskier’s body and the jaunty, inviting slant to Jaskier’s hips. Jaskier is unexpectedly enticing, with a soft stomach and strong thighs.

Jaskier is gazing back up at him wordlessly, wet tunic dripping in his hands, laundry forgotten. His mouth is open, a perfect red _o_ of surprise that Geralt can’t tear his eyes away from.

Geralt takes a step forward. Two. He expects Jaskier to flinch or cower or break and run, but when he closes the distance between them, bullying into Jaskier’s personal space, Jaskier drops his clothes and reaches for Geralt’s face with wide, curious eyes.

It gives Geralt pause.

His cool hands flit over Geralt’s brow, barely touching, his expression full of wonder. Jaskier’s voice is low when he asks, “What does it feel like? Can you describe it?”

“Too much,” Geralt rumbles, pressing into the touch hungrily before he can meter himself. The point of contact is like an anchor against the overwhelming input and he can feel Jaskier’s pulse jump wildly. “Can’t keep anything out.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches, a little puff of air so soft that Geralt isn’t sure Jaskier himself knows he’s made the sound. When Geralt looks at him, Jaskier’s eyes are as wide as full moons, bright blue, and Jaskier’s pupils dilate when Geralt licks his lips.

Heat floods Geralt’s bones. He knows when he’s wanted and Jaskier is broadcasting every sign of it as clear as day. No one else has ever wanted him like this.

“Jaskier,” he says, a low rumble full of warning.

“Oh,” Jaskier says. Geralt’s hand closes around his wrist and he repeats it. “ _Oh_. Yes. Please, yes.”

The next few moments are a blur, but he knows Jaskier reaches out greedily when Geralt gathers him up and tumbles them both to the ground. When the immediate rush and heat of sensation clears, Jaskier is straddling Geralt’s waist, pulling fruitlessly on the straps securing Geralt’s brigandine. He’s half hard in seconds, cock a blushing pink at the tip, damp and already jutting from his foreskin.

Everything comes rushing over Geralt all at once: the high, loud buzzing of insects, the sweat that trickles down Jaskier’s spine and over the back of Geralt’s clutching hand, the wind in the grass, the strangled sound Jaskier makes when Geralt palms his cock.

“Not fair,” Jaskier says, hands trembling. He’s undone two clasps — one of the four securing Geralt’s pauldrons and one of the cinches on Geralt’s left flank — and reaches for another unnecessary buckle.

Geralt bats Jaskier’s hands away, shimmying out of his armor with quick, practiced yanks because the idea of not pressing himself skin-to-skin is rapidly growing unbearable. Jaskier obliges by grasping for him immediately, bending to lay his mouth on Geralt’s overheated flesh with more enthusiasm than skill.

He smells so good, like sweat and cool, clean water and sweet prairie grass. Like wildflowers and the fragrant orange blossom tea he insists on drinking. Jaskier yelps in brief alarm when Geralt rolls them, grinding down against the soft, willing body now pressed face-down and pinned below him.

“I’m going to put my cock in you,” Geralt says into the nape of Jaskier’s neck, covering Jaskier with his body. His hand is gripping at Jaskier’s chest, throat, chin, pushing into the confines of Jaskier’s mouth. The sudden slide of Jaskier’s wet tongue against the pads of his fingers momentarily drives all coherent thought from Geralt’s brain.

“ _Please_ ,” Jaskier manages to groan around three of Geralt’s fingers, offering all the encouragement that Geralt needs with the desperate, needy whine that creeps into his voice when he begs.

His pack has a bevy of options to ease the way. On his knees amidst their belongings, he scatters bottles and vials, glass clinking faintly in their oilcloth bundles, and fishes out a bottle of oily salve that smells like aloe and sweet almond. A whiff of it and his vision blurs again, sending a wave of anticipation sweeping down his spine, scalp to cock, and he has to swallow back a groan.

“Spread yourself,” he orders. Jaskier shivers and does as he’s told so quickly that Geralt is nearly dizzy with secondhand eagerness.

He gets two slick fingers all the way up into the slippery clench of Jaskier’s body before he forces himself to slow, petting Jaskier’s heaving side with his free hand like he’s soothing a spooked beast. Jaskier’s face is in the dirt, one arm curled around his head, and he’s saying _please_ and mouthing the strangled edges of _more_ and _yes_ , his pleading more often only shapeless sound and knife-edge need than not.

When Geralt pushes a third finger into Jaskier’s quivering body, he’s aware of nothing except the sun, blisteringly hot on his bare, sweaty back, and the equally searing sensation of his hard cock still suffocating in his pants. He fumbles the laces open one-handed and frees himself, sucking in deep breaths, his lungs working like bellows and fueling the conflagration that erupts up the length of his spine and makes his cock twitch and leak.

“ _Fuck_ , Geralt,” Jaskier says, like a bottle of Elvish wine shaken, uncorked, and fizzing profanity. “Fuck me – please, I want it _now_.”

“You’ll get it when I give it to you,” Geralt snarls, “not a second before.”

“Yes, oh fuck, _yes_ ,” Jaskier says and then dissolves into a babbling string of filth that Geralt only pays half a mind to the contents of except to note that his filthy pleading for Geralt to _fill his tight ass up with that great big cock_ might make the better half a Rivian whorehouse blush.

He’ll do exactly as Jaskier asks, as soon as he’s certain he’ll even fit inside the tight, dusky pink ring of muscle already stretched so tightly around his knuckles. Geralt finds himself saying, “Relax, come on, relax,” to Jaskier, unable to remember when he started his soothing, coaxing croon. He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so fucking hard. “Relax for me, there’s a good boy.”

Jaskier’s legs tremble and he cries out when Geralt curls his fingers and the sweet little bastard comes without his cock being touched at all. The smell of him is sharp and acid and Geralt isn’t sure if he can stand it any longer, thumbing Jaskier’s slick, flushed opening as he reaches for the salve to grease his own cock.

When he withdraws his fingers and pushes the blunt head of his cock between Jaskier’s cheeks, rubbing against the hottest, most hidden place of him, Jaskier whines, “Geralt you – Geralt, oh gods, I don’t know if I can –” even as he presses back greedily.

“Shh, shh,” Geralt pushes, spouting nonsense, saying, “You can. Relax. Be good. Be so good for me.” The very tip of his cock breaches Jaskier’s body and it’s slow at first, so slow, then he’s _in_ and he feels like he’s melting into Jaskier, like nothing else exists.

He’s thrusting before he can help himself, rocking into Jaskier, sensation narrowed at first to his cock and then slowly spreading to his balls, belly, chest, head, until he’s dizzy with it. Everything is burning, the potions in his veins filling him up with rushing magic as he stuffs Jaskier to bursting with himself.

Below him, Jaskier is already half-hard again and would be squirming except for Geralt’s grip on him. Geralt is not too far gone to angle his hips and turn Jaskier’s faint gasps of pleasure into long, low sounds of bliss.

Out and in, Geralt loses track of how many times he thrusts, how many needy little gasps he fucks out of Jaskier with the force of them. The building, burning, impossible buzz is nearly too much to take and it’s too much to finish from, it’s too punishing. Jaskier has his fingers buried in the dirt and grass and is soaked with sweat and semen. Geralt registers that there are faint bruises on Jaskier’s hips where he’s been gripping and slows.

He rides through each slow, shuddering wave of sensation that accompanies the change of pace, but it’s not until he reaches around and palms Jaskier’s cock, listens to the high, fucked-out whine he makes, that the sensation filters through to that deep place of pleasure in his mind. Once it has a grip on him, it washes out everything else. 

There’s only Jaskier. And then Geralt is filling him messily, sloppily with his own come, the air gone from his lungs as Jaskier comes a second time right into Geralt’s grasping fist, sticky between Geralt’s large fingers. He feels as though someone has sent a bolt of lightning straight through his body, his pleasure a haze that fills him to the very brim and spills over.

One mindless thrust, two, three, and Geralt bears them both flat onto the grass and dirt, curling around Jaskier’s heaving body, face nuzzled into Jaskier’s hair.

“That was —” Jaskier pauses to catch his breath, then slightly peevish, says, “That was surprising. You might have warned me in advance. I won’t be able to ride for at least a day.”

“Who says you’re riding?” Geralt asks, mostly out of habit; Jaskier could convince Geralt of very nearly anything with his mouth slanted like that.

“ _Move_ ,” Jaskier commands loftily, as if he were the swotty little lordling he was instead of a penniless busker laying in the dirt and leaking Geralt’s spunk. Geralt grants him that he’s consistent, at least.

When he doesn’t immediately obey, Jaskier swats Geralt’s arm and Geralt grunts, shifting so that Jaskier can pillow himself in the crook of Geralt’s arm. “Better, bard?”

The only response is a sleepy hum.

There’s something sharp and shrewd about Jaskier, despite his hasty tongue and overly familiar, fumble-footed attempts to ingratiate himself with Geralt. Even thoroughly fucked, he manages to stretch out next to Geralt like _he’s_ the cat who got the canary. Geralt supposes he is, even though Jaskier’s face and chest are covered with grass, which he paws away with immense lassitude and sighs like he’s sinking into the most plush bed in all of the Continent.

Geralt mumbles, “You’re going to get a burn,” and flings his other arm over his eyes. The frenetic scramble of their coupling has seared away the worst of the potions’ effects, but there’s still a jagged edge to his nerves.

Jaskier hums in agreement. Eyes covered, Geralt can only speculate at the meaning of Jaskier’s sudden shuffling and fidgeting until legs straddle his own and Jaskier settles above him. He smells like Geralt now, like sex and sweat, and he showers grass and debris down on Geralt when he dusts himself vigorously.

It’s appalling. They’re filthy. Geralt can’t bring himself to mind. He’s had worse – and besides, whatever Jaskier is now doing with his hands on Geralt’s shoulders feels incredible. Now some length away from the campsite, Roach shuffles and snorts, as if they’ve been behaving very badly and she’s willing to have no part of it.

“Come bathe with me,” Jaskier cajoles, leaning down to block out the light. Geralt lifts his hand and slides his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, gripping him firmly enough that Jaskier can’t easily move his head. Jaskier’s blue eyes are hooded, his mouth lax with pleasure.

Jaskier likes a firm hand, then, and not just in the heat of the moment.

“Perhaps,” Geralt says, cracking one eye to peer at Jaskier. He draws Jaskier’s head down and kisses him, mouth open and lazy, bones still humming with pleasure. Geralt slides his hand up Jaskier’s spine, listening to the surprisingly deep groan that his touch elicits; Jaskier likes a soft touch, too.

“I’ll wash your hair. And your back,” Jaskier wheedles, nipping down the column of Geralt’s throat. “I’ll fondle your balls and maybe later we can see if you can fit that beautiful cock all the way into my mouth.”

A jolt of arousal sparks through Geralt, faint but full of promise. It’s been several decades since he’s felt hungry for touch so quickly, a short refractory period the realm of young men with libidos not staunched by age and old battle aches.

He says, “Very well,” and closes his eyes again, letting Jaskier press a scattering of very convincing kisses to the corner of his mouth and temple. If he lingers under the attention, no one else need know; the beasts here are all gone, so he might enjoy being a man for a time.


End file.
